Distant+Whispers

oyster shells covered the outside wall of the building. A huge rusted anchor rested at the side of the
building.
Mikell expected to see the typical moss covered oak tree that seemed to grow in everyone’s front
yard. Instead, there were numerous tall pine trees, surrounded at the base by thickets of saw
palmettos, with trunks like stretched out pineapples topped by thick serrated leaves sticking out in all
directions like a green porcupine. Behind the pines were tall trees with bark like gigantic fish scales.
At the top, their spindly leaves clustered in groups and grew in a small circle. They trees angled
towards the ocean like people scouting the seas for a long lost loved one.
Mikell peered through the car’s front window at a white sign with red lettering.
“Oh my God!” he said breathlessly.
DER WEISSE ROSE!
The White Rose! It was the name of a popular spot in Berlin. Mikell’s chest heaved. That’s what
the black American soldier, his father, called his mother: Der Weisse Rose. Mikell stood at the front
door of the restaurant, his body trembling. It felt like dozens of eyes were watching him: JT, Horn,
Toni, The Queens of Shiloh, the woman by the road weaving baskets, the kindly bear of a man at the
AME office. Even the white woman on the phone who was relieved that there were no Negros in her
family.
Before coming to America, he had never seen any of these people in his entire life. Now it
seemed as if they all had been waiting for him. He took a deep breath. Let’s go, Mikell.
The interior of the restaurant consisted of one large room, with several small tables for four
situated along the walls and larger round tables that seated up to six in the middle of the room. On one
side of a restaurant, photos of jazz artists covered the walls: Miles Davis doing a solo on a smokefilled
stage, Billie Holiday leaning languidly on a piano, Pharoah Saunders in an African dashiki, his
tenor sax pressed to his lips in some European club.
Mikell’s attention was drawn to the opposite wall which was filled with paintings. They
apparently were by the same artist. The bright pastels intrigued Mikell. He preferred the deep
emotions of oil. The paintings were full of women, and families, and men, and children. Plenty of
children. He jumped as a figure passed quickly behind him.
“I’ll be with you in a moment,” the shadowy figure called out.
Mikell’s heart jumped. He turned quickly but only caught a glimpse of a tall, dark, baldheaded
man disappearing into a room at the back of the restaurant. He stared at the door. Mikell’s body
tingled. He exhaled. The man appeared again with a sack in his hands. He nodded quickly at Mikell,
and then immediately exited through another door that led to the outside.
Mikell struggled to control himself. He took one deep breath, let it circulate in his body, and then
let it whoosh out slowly. His hands stopped trembling.
The man entered again, glanced at Mikell then went behind a wooden counter at the far side of the
room.
“I apologize again,” said the man. “I usually don’t get customers this time of day. You caught me
off-guard. What can I do for you?”
Mikell stared at the man from the other side of the room. There were no windows. Wall lamps
with lit red bulbs cast a warm glow through the restaurant.
This man didn’t have the same kind of accent as Horn, or JT, or even Toni. Actually, it was hard